I hesitate to look at what I’ve wrought.
I want to count my readers and I don’t.
To understand how many viewed and caught
my drift: okay. But then I worry: won’t
too few depress me, and too many force
me into light when I prefer the shade?
I’m brave and I can face this truth of course,
but I might slow if I know what I’ve made.
The link to Google Analytics waits
for my command, and I don’t execute.
I claim to want good data – now the gates
appear and just as suddenly I’m mute
and motionless, exposed and feeling shy,
my fingers up and covering one eye.