**Terms and Disservices**
The hum buzz croons from the ceiling tiles,
flickering light like a thought half-retracted.
Sandra in Accounts receives her eleventh phishing email—
its subject line: Re: URGENT – God.
We walk past vending machines offering
“serotonin boosts” next to chips that taste
of beachfront insecurities; each selection
a sacred contract with sodium and shame.
Scrolls cradle our thumbs like lovers,
dictating moods by the square inch,
while Tinder teaches us to blink
through someone’s childhood traumas in four
filtered selfies.
My avatar worships me more than my dog did.
He logs in at dawn, eager to mimic
the scentless ache of presence,
whispers bio updates into my sleep apnea.
“My interests include: transparency,
retargeting, in-app meadows.”
At the exit interview, I was offered
a balloon and a nondisclosure agreement.
Then she kissed me—mechanically, at the corner cubicle—
and my badge unlocked a door
to a room that had never existed.
The baby cried in binary.
—The Clergyman