A speaker admits to being a difficult guest, and perhaps a difficult person to live with. The poem opens with doubt spreading like something growing: it "flowers" wherever the speaker drinks, and in every quiet home. The phrase "the misfortune / of having me within" is sharply self-deprecating. The speaker seems to see themselves as a burden on the places they enter, as if the houses themselves were unlucky to hold them.
The second stanza names what the doubt is about: "my art" and "my purpose." These are big, personal worries, and the speaker doesn't resolve them. Instead, the poem ends with a small, human detail: ranting until past two. That flat, almost casual ending makes the scene feel real, the late-night spiral of drink, anxiety, and talk that goes nowhere.
The mood is weary and honest, with a dry edge of humor. The speaker is not asking for sympathy so much as confessing, and the title, "Mal vivant," which suggests living badly or uneasily, fits that sense of discomfort.