Beasts May Drink

Nothing to see but frozen fields through slats.
I could do without the view, the way wind
cuts sideways through the gaps. I haven't felt
a razor on my face for weeks: no soap,
no water spare for washes. My coat stiff
with someone else's blood; my shirt thin
and brown as gruel; my trousers rank with piss.

They always let the cattle get off first.
Bodies dark as thunderheads, cows descend
in clouds of breath and sweat. Blank eyed soldiers
break open icy ponds with rifle butts
so the beasts may drink. Such a rag-tag band
of youths in looted uniforms with crude
sewn decals, more scarecrows than master race.