Please Send Head Shots

I once saw a play with three Ty Cobbs.
The Georgia Peach, Cobb the man,
and the cursing, curmudgeon Cobb,
all represented on one poorly lit stage.

During intermission, I could not help
wondering what a play with three of me
might look like on the same poorly lit stage.
And which three of me would there be?

Maybe there are three of all of us
from the three stages of our lives.
Or, maybe there are twenty living
across the grid iron of all time.

Only a casting call, a paranormal formal,
could realize the true number of me,
and the terrible truth regarding division
of self and the exact age of my death.

The poorly lit stage, is again, poorly lit,
and the three Cobbs return to their marks.
Then it hits me, with a two handed Cobb grip:
There was never one of me.