One Wheel

I'm sorry, I'm sorry, says the boy with no shirt sitting atop a unicycle. I don't believe him and press into his apology. Then why cross in front of me, weave around me, and then cross again? Because he wanted to reach the button on a crosswalk post where his hand now rests, holding him upright on one wheel. I said I'm sorry, I said I'm sorry, he says. The light changes and we go separate ways. Except for his voice. It plays an audio loop in my head. I know this voice. Not the boy, but the voice of an afraid child facing an angry adult. This voice breaks me with each step of my running shoes on the pavement. I pound now to push out its frequency. I stop and turn back. I want to say I'm sorry even if I still don't believe him.