Fun in Acapulco by Terry Kelly

It is 1970
and no one is old yet.
We sit looking at Pyrex dishes
without shame.
And no one has died yet.
In the sitting room,
Bob Monkhouse instructs Bernie
to move the bolt.
It's Sunday afternoon
on any weekend of the year
and Elvis is on the beach
in black and white,
with girls in check bikinis
shaking their bonny ponytails
like speeded-up pendulums.
As the wind changes direction
outside our living room's rich condensation
people are moving
into new council estates
with a song in their hearts.
The gardens are radical:
no walls, no yellow privet, no gates.
I get dizzy on my 12-year-old legs
just looking at them.
Where does one lawn finish
and another begin?

Terry Kelly

First published in Oxford Poetry, 2009