Corbett's poem reads like a mind trying to take stock of itself while still foggy. It begins with a vague, almost guilty definition of drunkenness: doing what you shouldn't, or failing to do what you should. That loose phrasing suggests a speaker who can't quite say what went wrong, only that something did.
The body comes through in fragments: "Short of breath and sweaty." The brain is "like glass," and the repetition matters. Nothing sticks, and even the mind's eye seems smooth and blank. The speaker senses "something passing or just passed" but can't pin it down, which gives the middle of the poem a restless, half-grasping feeling.
The ending shifts to morning. There's no cigarette smoke over the toothpaste, so the speaker seems to be doing without a usual habit. Then the last line piles up three short exclamations: a full head, an empty stomach, spotted hands. The mood is physical, rueful and a little weary, like waking up and taking a plain inventory of the damage.