At her desk she notes a phrase: See Plus Plus.
Then the teacher chalks it out: C++.

"Conditionals decide the way": if, then, else.
"Variables record amounts": floats, ints, strings.
"Functions, where the actions go": voids and returns.
"Loops continue until done": for, while, do.
"Compilers..." and then

her mind
floats
slowly outside
the cold classroom
grown stark and dark

toward guitarists in the park,
their silver strings of notes
arrayed in songs so long
dimensionless
beyond a source
but with a link
returning her reoriented
from devaluation's void,
no object now, no arguments,
but loving all and love itself,
no exceptions left to throw,
constant, of no code to know,
so purely unconditional.

And should she think,
"Give into this," and follow bliss
to where it was, some time ago,
revert her major (changed as told)
back to music - back to bold
- such happiness develops yet

- or else, become a function run
in someone else's
programmed
crash?