The stickers on a traveler's suitcase.

Around his wrist is held time,
from his pen spill rhymes
and words of an unknown crime,
something he's only committed times less than fingers upon his hand.

He expected gratification,
the instant kind,
but the only thing driving him
was the fear of being lost.

Clapping once,
stepping thrice,
forgetting to breathe enough to make
his life somewhat desirable.

It's all he waited for, really,
the nonsense, the words falling
from his mouth in ways that may have
shamed him, in other circumstances.

Right now, though,

He was soaring upon the wings of his muse,
and it made him smile
until he realized
that gravity's only rhyme was
falling.