The doctor, delighted, sells you on a bland suitor:
“Why, it’s just plain old Basal Cell Carcinoma!”
Just a raw forehead in mid-life, delicate penance
for teenage sunbathing in Kansas.
The girls who came before you—your mother’s mothers—
had hard lives and dreamed you up: O, suburban girl
roasting herself on a varnished deck,
or deep in December Sunday bliss,
the highway an icy hairline scar, the missalette
and then Oak Park Mall.
— Mary O’Connell
The Coop: A Poetry Cooperative 
What a sharp eye and ear you have, Mary O’Connell. An elegant construct! But what’s a missalette?