As respected and talented poet (and mentioned in Heller's Inky column linked to above), Daisy Fried says, "Don would make a great Poet Laureate. He is also a topnotch catsitter." If I'm not mistaken, Daisy delivers those two sentences in iambic pentameter or almost so. And yes, I could be mistaken.
Well, the father topic has been in and about these parts lately, so in closing, here's a Dad sonnet from Don:
Unlike John Brooks Wheelwright, I do not ask
my eighteen-years dead Dad to undecease.
The specific way he puts it is come
home, but my father has gone home: ashes
in the base of the crematory furnace.
They offered to let us come pick the urn
up, who knows how long after he’d burned,
but I declined. Of what use that shovel
of gray particulate matter, mantel
adornment when I don’t have a fireplace?
And what about the ashes would be him?
I have what he imposed on me: the task
of being the professor he’d not been.
I’ve grown this beard to hide his lack of chin.