Why Isn’t There A Prize?

Why isn’t there a prize

for those over 80, for example
who are able
even if it hurts
in all those joints
to pick up a pen
and scribble a line,

a line about the starlight
coming down at us
like a sledge hammer,
or peck away at the computer keyboard
trying to think of that very special
all illuminating word?

But isn’t that
like an archeologist doing his dig
in some thoroughly looted site?
Oh, why isn’t there a prize
for those of us
with one leg over the edge, and teetering,

and even if some light has actually lit in our noggins
and we, albeit aware of the precariousness
of our stance, our deteriorated sense of balance,
are still trying to hop with the other? Not that we need
a prize. We know that that’s a lot of bullshit.
But it would be nice if there was one, for example.