But it would not happen. Nothing would ever happen. He had been here, like this, ten thousand times, He would be here, like this, ten thousand more, Until at last the little ticks of the clock Had cooled what had been hot, and changed the thin, Blue, forking veins across the back of his hand Into the big, soft veins on Father’s hand. And the world would be snug. And he would sit Reading the same newspaper, after dinner, Through spectacles whose bows were getting worn While a wife knitted on an endless scarf And a child slowly formed with quiet lips “Amo, amas, amat,” and still no sound. And it would be over. Over without having been.