Dave Bonta addresses his phone as if it were a lover, and the tone is half tender, half rueful. The speaker calls it his "life sentence," which hints that he feels both attached to it and trapped by it. When it "gets out of hand," it unravels him, and the nervous "butterflies in my stomach" suggest the anxiety it can cause.
The poem then widens out. Airport security, the sense that "everyone disapproves of us," and the jab about being "trackable" all point to a world that fears these devices yet profits from watching us through them. The "crumbs of our selfies" make the speaker's digital trail feel both silly and a little creepy.
The ending is the most telling. The phone has replaced an old love, a VW camper van, and it is smoother to travel in, so smooth he hardly knows he's moving. That could be a joke about comfort, or a worry about drifting without noticing. In the last lines he reaches for cigarettes and finds the phone instead, quiet and "set to vibrate." One habit has simply swapped places with another.