I'm delivering letters to the moon again

It’s the same route—311, then the bend past the dead oak, then up the ladder made of old satellite dishes. The dog at 311 is still there, wagging without a body, just a shadow in the dust. I hand him a letter sealed with wax that says nothing. He licks it and vanishes. The moon’s surface is littered with undelivered post from 1972. I wonder if anyone even remembers what they were supposed to say.