I drove south with a guitar,
three shirts,
two boxes of CDs,
a half-eaten apple
and the dangerous intention
of playing music.

At the border
a man in a uniform asked,

Purpose of your visit?

Music, I said.

Wrong answer.

Music apparently has a purpose.

Tourism may wander freely
through the republic,
but a diminished chord
requires documentation.

He asked if I was working.

I said I was playing.

He said playing was working.

I said you haven’t seen my audiences.

He did not laugh.