Metal Storm

Harsh metals fall from the sky.
We shelter in the oyster bar
and leave metallurgy to others.

We agree that our planet
must have run over a small
but elemental lump of debris.

The oysters are good this month.
Their life spans may be modest,
but their vacant shells honor

the creature that created them
thanks to twists of evolution
no one could have seen coming.

Some of the falling metal 
has already oxidized greenish
or reddish or black. When

this peculiar storm ends, people
will scoop up the shards to sell
to tourists and eager scientists.

We’ll remain seated and sipping
Tanqueray gin and tonic.
We’ve already eaten a dozen

mildly protesting oysters.
Their shells pile up on a plate
much as the alien sky-elements

collect in the street, sharp edges
daring us to touch them and risk 
wounds too celestial to heal.