The couple were back at home
In their suburban rental,
Looking out to Tasman Bay.
It was a nice place, big deck.
To them it was exotic.
They’d spent that day on the beach
At Rabbit Island, a name
They’d both forget. They had felt
Exotic themselves, that way
People do when they’re conscious
Of being away from home,
Opposite side of the world—
Although, let’s face it, they knew,
For all the storybook tales
Framed by gorgeous New Zealand,
Here was a comfortable,
Familiar kind of suburb
With the latest devices,
Where the language was English,
The crime rate lower than home.
When they had rented the place
They’d gushed about coming here
To the wry leasing agent
Who’d laughed and said she reckoned
She’d no idea why here, but
Fine by her. Here are the keys.