You sit in my armchair and say you may have breast cancer,
and I nod and type at my desk.
You continue and say you finally ran the full nine miles
     but stopped to rest and walk around the graveyard,
and I say good job. If I slept more I'd say more.

I tell you to leave my room and you laugh and say good night.
When you're gone I think about you being gone forever
until I consider sadness. You're strong willed but worried,
and I sit indifferent. If I were a pool I'd bear your tears
and try to reflect a happier image,
but lately I just feel like a cone that drains sewage.