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?





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