Actually the dermatologist took it.
He defaced my face,
plucked the mole hill,
and put a mountain of gauze and tape
over the three little stitches.
I googled Mt. Rushmore,
and there it was,
the size of a boulder,
that if tied around my ankles
would sink me to the bottom for sure.
If Abraham Lincoln could,
would he want Jack-hammer Jack
to remove the pronounced punctuation
from his righteous cheek?
We all take it for granite.
My mole went missing,
and I shall miss it indeed.
I pray for a scar of remembrance,
a Rembrandt, should I need to face it,
because I will never have that chiseled look.