Martin Place Ghetto I was walking up Martin Place the other day— second-hand tents pitched upon stock-grey slate. An old man giving mouth-to-mouth to a half-inflated mattress, catching his breath with the help of a cigarette. One two three four people to a tent, five six seven rows of three— a woman and child looking down at me. I remember seeing a library there too— paper-backs stacked upon up-turned crates, their pages stained and frayed and yellowed like fingers that once sought refuge in their pages. Now there is no library, mother, child, or old man. The tents and people…