Listen

At the edge of my universe, there is a call bell
vintage, with gold vermeil, the kind that sits 
on service counters waiting for a finger to tap its cue

I always hear it

Sometimes the clear pitch slices through the air
so startlingly it wakes me from sleep
an image of the caller painted in the black space 
behind my lids before they’ve had a chance to open

Sometimes it’s a quiet chime 
from the distant corners of my mind
persisting in its ringing until I heed its call
with my full attention

Sometimes it plays as a single note and stops
abruptly and I try to remember to make a note
that someone was there, that they needed me,
because there is invariably a reason

the bell calls out, a reason someone is there
with their finger tapping at the edge of my universe
and I know enough to know—
whether it’s a hand they need or a simple hello—

to always listen