We stand in tights, leggings, skirts,
a tie and jacket, dolled up as much as
our fellow theatre-goers
waiting for the train.

Our breaths form miniature clouds
as they enter the humid night air.
We shuffle our feet, clap our hands,
pull up our hoods, rejoice at the lights
of the train curving around the tracks.

Everyone says, How old are they?
Going to the theatre? Shrek tonight?
Beautiful girls, beautiful, beautiful girls.
As we stand clutching the pole, no room.

It couldn’t be better. The pictures we took
(soon to be Christmas cards), the lipstick
now smearing across their cheeks,
the laugh-your-ass-off musical of our dreams.

Four, six, almost eight, I tell them.
They say it only gets better. But how can it
be better than this? Dinner at a local restaurant,
riding the train downtown, the theatre,
three little, little girls as proud as new parents?

We’ll see. For now, I take their tiny hands in mine,
dash through the tunnel with lights that
ring at their anxious pats, their pink jackets
and polka-dot tights reminding me of the youth
we all have within us, the youth, the love we crave.