Boxed in glove

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 crosshatched 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 children he 
doesn’t really know. 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.