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.