Running on Empty, by Ann Matzke

Nighthawks, by Edward Hopper (USA) 1942

​Running on Empty
​
Phillies Café is open 24/7, 
even though the hours aren’t posted. 
There are no menus, no cook, no kitchen, 
no lock on the door. Hilarious details oblivious 
to the humans that pass by. 
 
Bubbling, brown, murky sludge, disguised 
as what they all call fresh brew here, 
it’s all they serve. It’s a space traveler’s haven, 
a recharging station between universes, 
fuel dispensed from two large silver retro 
spaceship shaped urns, always full, never empty. 
 
A repurposed robot stands behind the counter, 
wearing a pointy white hat, wrinkled shirt, 
dark lines of sludge, noticeable beneath 
its yellowed nails is Johnny on the spot.
 
Tonight, something feels off. No one else 
seems to notice. We’ve all followed the drill, 
dropping in like this… dark suit, white shirt and tie, 
or if you’re so lucky like me, a stylish dress, 
fashionable heels, silk stockings and Victory 
red lipstick. 
 
You take whichever you can get, depending 
on the gender available when it’s your turn to drop. 
I get a second look from the robot when I first 
sit down. Did he wink at me? 
 
These ancient artifacts they call
clothing are so uncomfortable, 
so confining, thank goodness 
they’re only temporary. Tonight, 
I can’t be bothered with anything earthly, 
I’m running on empty. I’m only thinking 
about recharging and getting 
the hell out of Dodge.
 
My cup trembles more than usual. 
I slug down the first of many cups I’ll need.
It’s not as thick as usual, leaves behind a bitter taste. 
 
The robot pauses, smiles, offers to refill my cup. 
Unusual behaviour. He pours, same thin fuel. 
What’s up with that? Then he has the nerve to act 
like he actually wants to speak. I don’t have time 
for malfunctions on his part. My tank is not 
refilling. Nor is the meter registering any fuel. 
Something is wrong! 
Very wrong. 
 
My cup knows something’s amiss. It rebels,
bucks, loudly exhales. I lasso my finger through 
its handle, hold it steady with both hands. 
But right out of the shoot, it kicks, rears, spins. 
I can’t hold on. The cup plunges over the edge 
of the counter, crashing, to the tiled floor. Breaks 
into a million pieces of death – or was it, suicide? 
 
Everyone stares. I feel the cups pain. 
Recharging shouldn’t be this hard.
I’d slip off my hat if I was wearing one. 
You know, out of a sign of respect 
for what’s happened. It’s then, 
I notice the sign…
 
Phillies Café 
under new management. 
Drink the coffee at your own risk.
 
Ann Matzke

Ann Matzke is an emerging poet who has a deep passion for art and art history. She has published poems, essays in the Rappahannock Review, HEAL, The Ekphrastic Review, Intima: Journal of Narrative Medicine, Plain Song Review. She has also published nonfiction books for young readers. She earned an MFA in Writing for Children and Young Adults from Hamline University in St. Paul, Minnesota. More information about Ann can be found on her website: www.annmatzke.com