The Journey Home Poem by Mark Heathcote

Aisle-on-aisle in them, church pews, going home
they hold their iPhone 7s like a prayer book
bent in devotion switched to some—Om!
Haloed busses, baited on a fishhook
each waiting for that vital uplink call
is it the voice of God or just subtext?
I feel I'm not connected, less enthral
I don't-like-iPhones at all—I'm perplexed
I haven't God at my fingertips—my ear
and this isn't my church or Sunday school.
As a rule, I read a book, some seer,
a clear-eyed poet-prophet. so I'm uncool,
I'm inclined to sit alone, quite detached
in a vestibule, where God and I are patched.