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.