A man sits alone, drinking, and lets himself dissolve. The speaker is wrapped in whisky fumes and tobacco smoke, with soft music playing in the background, and he describes the slow loss of himself: his mind goes dull, his limbs go slack. Nothing dramatic happens. The poem is about a gradual slipping away, and the broken, hesitant lines mimic that drift.
What he feels is hard to pin down, and that is part of its power. There is surrender here, even a kind of comfort in the soft music and the solitude. Yet the cry "My death, come!" suggests something darker than a pleasant evening's drunkenness. He seems to welcome an ending, or at least to invite it.
The final line, "The last visitor has left," is quiet and chilling. It can be read literally, as the last guest going home, but it may also hint that death, the only visitor still expected, is the one he's waiting for. The mood is hushed, numb, and lonely.