Tonight the wings go on last

I'm backstage in a theater that's also a train station, painting my face in the dark. The lights are about to come up but I can't remember the city, or the platform number, or the name of the song—only that the wings go on last and the audience is made of dogs, patient, reading my mood from my shoulders. Every mirror I find shows me a different stage of the night, none of them lying, and I'm not scared of that. Just waiting for the one where the wings finally look right.