November of 1902, in Philadelphia, felt like summer,
and the poet was suffering a bout of dyspepsia.
He wasn’t a poet at the time. A dental student.
I think of the marvelous teeth he must have maintained,
buried somewhere now, forgotten, likely in New Jersey.

No one alive to remember that warmth,
though it strikes me as important.
This morning was cold enough to make my eyes water,
and my teeth are staining from too much coffee,
the occasional glut of cigarettes.

A warm breeze, streets cluttered with decay.
The glint of sun off enamel.

He was yearning for New York,
which I am sure passed when winter finally fell.