With each step you shout 'Marco' Hearing 'Polo' in the soon to be filled barstool next to you, new friends as replies 'Polo' written in code, sewn into the stitches of a vintage sweater, worn by the subject atop the newly warmed stool. I inquire 'Where from?' (asking) 'Who owned it before you?' (assuming) 'Your Grandma made it?!' (appreciating) Tell me more about her.
You want to know the time. The line outside the pizza shop tells you it's time to go home. Probably should drink water. Seconds pass quickly, feeling the weight. The time you can't get back. The time you laughed freely but still not as much as your soul needed. Similar to not saying everything you had intended to that one time.
Marching Marcos hailing a cab, befriending a bike, or greeting a bustop. 'Do you know when the next bus comes?' (asking) 'Thank you. Ah that breeze sure feels nice.' (acknowledging) 'Have a good night!' (a goodbye)