Introspection, or the Lack of Attention.

Granted that I never
Really had the ability
The quite unconscious facility
Of making heads turn
Hearts burn
In my presence.
Yearn
In my absence.

Granted that my poetry
Was mostly trite
That write as I might
Even at my passionate best
I was devoid
Of that mass
Appeal.
That bestseller
Feel.

Yet I like to assume
That there was sometimes a flicker
A smoulder
A spark of debate
A glimmer of genius
In a mostly gentle flame.
A spot of beauty
In an unremarkable face.