Three short lines, and almost nothing else: a Friday bar, a highway, a loud racket. The poem works like a snapshot, or maybe a sound heard through a car window. "Ilk" is an interesting word choice. It means a type or kind, so "Friday bar ilk" suggests the sort of crowd or place you find on a Friday night, a bit rough and a bit anonymous, all lumped together as a type.
The speaker doesn't say how they feel outright, and judging by the wording, they seem to be observing from a distance, perhaps just passing by. There's a mild, wry tone in "ilk," as though the speaker is sizing the place up without really joining in. The title "Rowdy" tells us what to expect, and "high din" delivers it: the noise is almost the whole point.
The mood is loud but also compressed. The tight, clipped lines make the commotion feel like a quick burst, noisy and fleeting, something you pass and leave behind.