Requests for Toy Piano

Play the one about the family of the ducks where the ducks go down to the river and one of them thinks the water will be cold but then they jump in anyway and like it and splash around. No, I must play the one about the nervous man from Palestine in row 14 with a brown bag in his lap in which a gun is hidden in a sandwich. Play the one about the handsome man and woman standing on the steps of her apartment and how the darkness and her perfume and the beating of their hearts conjoin to make them feel like leaping from the edge of chance— No, I should play the one about the hard rectangle of the credit card hidden in the man’s back pocket and how the woman spent an hour plucking out her brows, and how her perfume was made from the destruction of a hundred flowers. Then play the one about the flower industry in which the migrant workers curse their own infected hands from tossing sheaves of roses and carnations into the back of the refrigerated trucks. No, I must play the one about the single yellow daffodil standing on my kitchen table whose cut stem draws the water upwards so the plant is flushed with the conviction that the water has been sent to find and raise it up from somewhere so deep inside the earth not even flowers can remember.