Suicide of a Moderate Dictator

　　by Elizabeth Bishop

　　 This is a day when truths will out， perhaps；

　　 leak from the dangling telephone earphones

　　 sapping the festooned switchboards' strength；

　　 fall from the windows， blow from off the sills，

　　 -the vague， slight unremarkable contents

　　 of emptying ash-trays； rub off on our fingers

　　 like ink from the un-proof-read newspapers，

　　 crocking the way the unfocused photographs

　　 of crooked faces do that soil our coats，

　　 our tropical-wight coats， like slapped-at moths.

　　 Today's a day when those who work

　　 are idling. Those who played must work

　　 and hurry， too， to get it downe，

　　 with little dignity or none.

　　 The newspapers are sold； the kiosk shutters

　　 crash down. But anyway， in the night

　　 the headlines wrote themselves， see， on the streets

　　 and sidewalks everywhere； a sediment's splashed

　　 even to the first floors of apartment houses.

　　 This is a day that's beautiful as well，

　　 warm and clear. At seven o'clock I saw

　　 the dogs being walked along the famous beach

　　 as usual， in a shiny gray-green dawn，

　　 leaving their paw prints draining in the wet.

　　 The line of breakers was steady and the pinkish，

　　 segmented rainbow steadily hung above it.

　　 At eight， two little boys were flying kites.