Under a Windy Tree

I'm free, I think
In my chair by the tree,
Sipping a drink in spring. That's fair.

Do I care what I think
When I'm under a tree,
Do I care what is fair?
I pour another drink
And rearrange my chair
And pretend I am free.

A gust of wind shakes the tree
And spills the rest of my drink.
Nothing physical is free.
I depend on solid chairs.
I can't walk, and that's unfair,
Or at least that's what I think.

Stubborn, I pour another drink
And settle myself in my chair
And swear I don't care what you think
About cripples, booze, or what's fair
When it's spring and sunlight is free
And young leaves scroll out of old trees.

I hate this uncomfortable chair.
Like everything built handsome and fair,
It's useless to use. I hate that tree,
Dripping sap and poking out thorns. Free
Thinkers end up feeling forced to think
They're freer, while wiser folks pour drinks

For friends indoors, even when weather's fair,
Knowing that nothing enjoyable's free
Nor durably enjoyable. Here, drink
Another, relax. Very soon, I think,
This game's going to be done. Poetry
Is fine for greeting cards, but an armchair,

Beer, and TV-show stories will set you free
From your worries faster than what you can think
To compose in fine words in a straight-back chair,
Drunk on fancy wine under a windy tree
In spring.  Anyways, wisdom's dumb, right? I'll drink
To that. This world can't be outsmarted. That's fair.