Kontula Station

The glass doors open on their own,
Above them, on a red stripe, 
is the station name
In white letters,
As you walk through the opening,
There are metallic bins to the right
Along with a photo booth
Noises of voices and machines fill your ears 
Like background music 
Before you make your way past the ticket machines 
to the steel escalators 
 Gliding down to the station floor 
Where the walls are silver, 
Between the glass entry and exit doors 
There is an elevator 
As you walk through the entrance, 
There is a final set of glass doors 
Before you arrive at the platform 
There you are greeted by vending machines 
And times for each of the trains 
The smell of oil and coffee hits your nose
With people sitting or conversing 
Pinkish-grey concrete that is pristine 
With drains
Between wooden benches 
Lines the floor of the station 
Between two different sets of train lines
With brown dirt across them, 
At the top of the walls are pieces of 80s graffiti, 
The middle of the walls are covered in the same red and white stripes. 
As can be seen outside,
But with greenish maps sitting underneath 
The further you enter,
The more that you can see,
Another set of escalators 
Beyond that are grey pillars with touches of age and black graffiti 
In the middle sits a series of elevators
Until you reach a large map to the left with a set of circular bins
Mounted on a pillar at the end 
There are exit signs,
With a set of concrete stairs at the bottom,
A green growth spilling out of its sides 
At this point, you only hear the wheels of the trains passing by
Each train is orange and black,
With porcelain bicycle symbols on them
It's paint reflecting the grimy yellow lights above our heads
As the digital destinations repeat on the back,
Of each black message board
As if they are saying:
Welcome to Kontula.