I dance at nothing

I dance at nothing:

the scrape of a fork;
the scuff of a boot;
a syncope of typists

has my shoulders
flinch like a shotgun
kick back.

My body pops
at a knot
of knuckle clicks.

A basketball
dropped,
and I look like
I'm going for a three point shot...

Where are the lasers
in the supermarket queue?
Please will you scan me?
I've a barcode tattoo.

When they carry my mother's coffin,
I pray that the pall bearer's feet
do not synchronise

or I'll be nodding in the aisle,
then out by the pulpit
giving it all that

grinding the priest
to the rhythm of sobbing.
I dance at nothing so
please,please, don't clap.