Dave Bonta imagines hope as a kind of job, and the "officers" who hold it as a tired, rather human crew. They sleep sitting up, as if always on watch, never fully off duty. Their ease with one another comes only after five or six glasses of wine, which suggests that honest understanding between people doesn't come easily and sometimes needs a little help.
The tone is gentle, wry, and a bit sad. These officers allow themselves "a little crying" and rank it "above all mirth," as though sorrow is more truthful than laughter. The last lines are the most touching. Around young people, the officers "play at playing": they pretend to be playful, perhaps to protect the young from how heavy hope can feel to adults. The poem seems to say that hope is less about bright cheer than about staying alert, sharing grief, and acting light-hearted so others can keep believing. The mood is quiet, tender, and a little weary.