One Ring to Hold the Keys

In Stoke that night, by sunset,

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.