Between blue shirts, white cuffs, gray bars, he takes our hands, our faces, our names.

“…all of which feed into this control center housed in a secret location.”

We’re mostly new, but we all know the blue floors, white walls, and gray faces

that keep our hands.

Our faces are names.

“There are 2,000 cameras and soon there will be 3,000.”

Her hands, her face and her name held together by

blue sleeves, white cuffs, and gray ties,

and are up next at the machine.

“It is nearly impossible now…

And since her hand, her face, and her name blew right into the gray of the streets,

“…to walk a block in lower Manhattan.”

Then they’ll ask her for her eyes.

They say it won’t hurt, that they’ll throw them away,

but who knows what’s true when you’re blue, white and gray

and they got your hand, your face and your name.

“We are authorized to take pictures…this is just a picture of your iris.”

“Mr. Blue,” said with wide eyes and frayed face,

“You’ve got my hand, my face, and my name.

Why you wanna take my eyes?”

“Our lawyers say we don’t need any mandate to do it.”