(The other day, my daughter was playing a bunch of Miley Cyrus songs—both old and new. Then I had an assignment to write a poem about a celebrity.)
WRECKED
Miley Cyrus went home to Tennessee for Christmas
like Cinderella after the ball.
All the family was there, all their kids. Her uncle
brought his cat.
Dinner was pulled pork with all the fixins
more pies than ought to be allowed.
The cousins raced
to pour the first cup of Granny’s cider.
Miley drank coffee — wore a huge sweater,
old jeans. The fire did its thing
until 4:32 a.m., when the embers died down.
She’d planned to crash on the couch but couldn’t
sleep. Before everyone woke, she grabbed a trash bag
emptied the ash, spoonful by spoonful,
cleaning it like it had never been cleaned ever.
“Why’d you do that, hon?” Billy Ray asked
when he came downstairs. Miley
shrugged. She couldn’t say.
