Kids in pajamas cut at the knee,
so they won't trip barreling down the stairs,
beat on their parents' door.
There's a Bible beneath several self-help books
and a vanity mirror sporting a crucifix etched
in with scissors. Mom and Dad toss the blankets
at the headboard and follow their kids.
The sounds of squeals and running water come
from the kitchen. A pill case sits on the counter
while one kid fills a plastic cup half-full of water.
The blood of Christ and soap stains.
The kids smack the table trying for the rim
of their baskets. Jellybeans, peanut butter cups,
and shredded plastic bags fall from one's.
The other is showered by a cascade of prescription
bottles, daily dosage instructions, and torn-up coping
pamphlets. Carrying a handful of Prozac to his mother,
he tugs on the hem of her nightgown and smiles.