They didn't take my car; they made it forget my hand. For years it had opened to my touch, only mine.

I sat on the curb and cried.

One day months later the bus ignored my face and demanded cash, while the people behind me looked away.

Now I'm standing at the front door of a house that's asking who I am.

Only the street cameras know me, but they don't talk. I take my gun and try to make them.

But the gun lies inert in the unrecognized palm of my hand.