Owen Sheers
Joseph Jones
Of course I remember Joseph
Fifty press-ups before a night out,
hair sheened with gel,
air dead with scent when he passed.

Told us all how he got his red wings
over the bandstand railing.
Her skirt, an umbrella blown inside out,
White tights shed to high heels.

How he would stand at the bar,
stroking his chest with one hand,
drinking with the other;
the making of a small town myth -

late night fights,
a trial once
with Cardiff Youth.