Ain't it a Shame?

Ain't it a shame,
this gonerism,
byeism,
simple see-you-in-Julyism?

Ain't it a shame
for your arms to slump
and your back to arch
like a dew-laden grain-
stalk bending in the dawn?

Ain't it a shame for us to
hold cold hands in a cold
parked car, and to pack off
at that moment like
shiftless old dogs?

(--and suddenly, I'm holding nothing:
one cannot hold onto a
memory's dead moments, I learned)

And so long so long,
but ain't it a shame?