Pick only one, said the Twitter poll:
true love; a hundred million dollars; a time machine.
Isn't it sad, I commented, to become so old
as to understand that only #2 exists?
Not so, a woman posted back,
I've enjoyed #1 for thirty-five years now,
with no sign of abating.

I should acknowledge her great fortune.
I should congratulate her.
I should rejoice at the news
and rejigger my model of the world.
Why, then, do I want to crumple up her brightness
like a ball of dry paper and throw it
into the obliterating brightness of the sun?