Jack Sullivan

FOR ROBIN, MY LOVE

There’s a door

Between two rooms,

Small passageway

At the heart

Of Wayne Manor.

Late at night

One can hear

Floorboards creak,

Each whispering

As Master

Makes his way

Towards where

His apprentice sleeps.

Soon to curl beside him,

But not touch,

The memory of his

Harsh, ragged breathing

One of many phantoms

Floating through the night.

Jack is a poet, playwright, and filmmaker living in Brooklyn, NY. Some of his poems can be found in In Parentheses, Yes Poetry, and Ghost City Review. Follow him on Twitter @jacksully1393 for general gay nonsense.

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