What he missed most of local diners, long vanished,

More than waitresses who almost always blushed,

Or praised him outright for his good looks, 

More than oversized desserts, even more

Than the background voices of real people

Speaking plainly of real things,

Was the way those ever glistening coffee mugs,

Hefty, smoothly heavy and reassuring,

Always seemed to be there to impart

Their familiar feel of solidity and calm,

Their look of permanence, security without end,

Into his hands, into his soul,

Like the hand of an old faithful friend.

Sometimes tan, but more often a shaded white,

It made little difference to him

Whether they stood there nearly empty,

Or still brimming to the top,

Still wafting their magic aroma

From stool to stool, from wall to wall,

Like a vague but unmistakable promise

Of still better things to come.

By Jerry Shonda