What is it?

An old man in the park,
Feeding pigeons,

Tending them,
Loving them
Solitary.

Confined to the twilight of
Old age, with memories that are fading,
That he could never have been bothered
To have written down, the only regret he has left.

Flesh, hanging, a spine and hips that creak,

Every sensation of pain brings a tide of fear.

Soiled undergarments
Are no longer a secret

A great surge of the heart heaps
Memories of lost love ones,
To war, to illness, to death.

All these sorrows have bent him
But he will never be broken.

Why?

What IS this thing called Hope?