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.