Glove compartment

In   his  cubicle  he  feels  like  Dilbert  in  his  frame,
stuck   between   Analysis  (Finance)   to   his    right
and   Help   Desk   (Europe)    on   his  left.    Driving
home,   wedged    between   an   Audi   and  a   Volvo
in    his   03    Nissan,    he   mistimes   a   turn,   ends
up     stranded      in       a      cross-hatched      square.
My    life’s    like   this,   he   thinks,   watching  other
drivers   lose   their   rag.    Every   night  sandwiched
between     his     Mrs      and      their   eight-year-old,
who’s     having     trouble    sleeping    on    his    own.
Weekends     hemmed     in     by     visits     to   ageing
parents    and   giving   lifts    to    step-kids    he    has
never     really    known.      His    dreams    are    filled
with     empty     spaces.      But     when     he     wakes,
before   he    hides   behind   the   cereal  at   breakfast,
the  thought   occurs  to   him  in   the  smallest  room,
how pretty  much all  life ends up in some kind of box.