At the Red Light

At the red light, pressing
the spot where the skull
meets the soft neck trying
to let go, you know, like
when new babies heads
drop, warm and soft into
your cradled hands.

The sky protests, flushing
pink as five swans ride
low and silent across
the crossroads. Sitting
back, from my face,
seeing the same look
in my father's eyes,
living in mine.