My body is a traveler across the dust bowl towns and Amarillo tinges anything I touch. There's two rooms for guests in this home so that where and how we sleep is a choice my parents gave us, a choice they didn't force. My folks believe in love, and believe in ties that bind; and believe love's bonds are good for their son, and don't bemoan the shape of the knots. My father is on his evening rounds, inspecting the locks and the doors, he pauses and chats a while with the man I've brought home to meet my folks. He tries not to look through the door where my naked body is sandwiched in mother's sheets, white as hoarfrost; the bedspread too is lace.