In what was once The Head of Steam,

the oldest friends stare at what was now

and smiled for having survived

the what could have been,

if she had said yes at seventeen

and the inevitable destruction

of youthful dreams,

for in the space that

was distanced by the sound

of Tuesday night shrill,

the feminine arsenal load of cheap wine

fuelled by the required by thunderous

glass and ear-splitting bitten down

eye, cross at the volume that such nights bring,

the two old friends know, that this moment,