Mooch

A Poem About the Mooch

In a cosy flat on the fringe of the city, Where the kettle’s hiss is a low lullaby, There lives a soul – a ‘mooch’ by definition, A seeker of warmth in another’s division.

They tiptoe at the fridge, a shadow in amber light, A soft whisper against the voicemail of delight, Ringing in the yearning for crumbs that refuse To leave the eater’s plate, the plates they refuse.

Not a thief of brass, nor a robber of names, But a quiet quietist, in gentle reclaims, Mooching on the love that a friend sometimes spills, On the last cup of tea, the bits that no one wills.

They linger in the living room, under the lamp's glow, Their presence as benign as missing a souvenir's throw. The crackle of the fire, the scent of fresh jam, All of which gather in the mooch’s quiet sham.

If the world were a play, and you were the stage, A mooch would be one who skips the lines of the page And takes from the script with the aim of a grin, A place in the footnote where none has looked in.

Yet, in honest reverie, a provisional truth lies: Not all who lean on others are drifters of eyes. Some are kin, some are kin in name, found at the bend Where we open a door and align: we are friends.

So let us paint the mooch not purely in bash, But learn from their pulse, that nothing can unlash. Murmur a rhyme, a gentle stern fuss, Then share the spoon, the bread, the toast for us all. ?