What if a rhinoceros, an armor-plated pachy
from a hot-fudge sundae dream,
could stand on two legs,
speak in polysyllables,
type haiku on keys the size of manhole covers
while devouring watermelons as if they were red grapes
with his hoof-piece pinky extended just so?
What if that rhino drove a hybrid car (a bus, more likely),
read Dr. Seuss to book-deprived children,
admired Dr. King and Gandhi,
rescued ladies in distress?
Would we still stare at his long lumpy face,
his wine-barrel body,
his tree-trunk legs,
his gray washboard skin,
his undersized ears,
and call him an animal?
Would we still hunt him down
and lock him up behind high steel fences
and point and whisper and wonder if rhinos,
like humans, go to heaven?