The title gives the poem its main idea. A victualer is someone who supplies food, a kind of shopkeeper, and here the speaker's own mind plays that role. It goes through the inventory of his life and counts up what he wants, as if desires were goods on a shelf.
The items it lists are ordinary: a wife at dinner, days full of talk, affairs, a colored suit. Some are warm, some are showy, and the poem doesn't rank them. Putting them in one flat list makes love, gossip, vanity and possibly infidelity feel like the same sort of thing, things to be tallied. The final line, "News of our losses," interrupts the counting. It's short and bleak, and it suggests that every ledger has a debit side.
The mood is dry, wry and a little uneasy. The speaker seems to look at himself with cool detachment, and the poem leaves us wondering whether all this accounting is a way of avoiding feeling.