Did The Trick Poem by Terry Collett

You hear the bedroom door
open, you keep your eyes
closed, still your breathing,
keep it regular, pretend to

be asleep, keep your eyes
as still as possible. He walks
into the room, you can hear
his footsteps on the carpet,

soft yet hear him move now
about the room. If you wake
he'll want sex again, and you
really can't go through that

again, not now, not again
this morning. You can sense
him moving towards the bed,
can hear his breathing near

you, a laboured breath, as
if he wanted to wake you
by it, but you remain still,
eyes shut. You sense he is

close to you now, his face
maybe inches from your
own. You breath regular as
you can; your right hand is

visible over your breast,
the other hidden beneath
the bed covers. Your head
is reclined to your left so

that your right earring is
on your right cheek, just
laying there. You hear him
move away, he lets out a

small sigh, a disappointed
sigh, a deep frustrated sigh.
He goes away, but not out
of the room: he's at the

bottom of the bed, possibly
peering through the gap
in the curtains, out at
the morning. You remain

in your pretend sleep:
eyelids sealed smooth
as shells. He walks away
again, opens the door, and

goes out, closing the door
with a soft click. Pretending
to be sleep did it, did the trick.