Michael Wells

This remarkable community of cells
calls to mind, in its harmonious serenity,
an American housing development of the late-fifties:
the quiet suburban lanes, the orderly rows of newly planted trees,
the identical houses, differentiated only by numbered mailboxes
sitting like sentries at the sidewalk’s edge.

One can imagine each little cellular house
with its own backyard grill,
each chef in “Kiss the Cook” apron
wielding spatula and fork,
blinking at the smoke and fire,
while golden tones of Frank Sinatra
drift from the radio on the fragrant air.
And as evening comes, perhaps as lights in the lab
are turned down low, there’s quiet conversation,
and one last drink while sitting before the embers
of the charcoal fires.

Little village, working together so tirelessly, so selflessly
on behalf of humankind, we thank you for your service,
and wish you soft rains to nourish emerald-green lawns
that will never know a blade of crabgrass.

Charles Coe